Books by Maggie Shayne (198 page)

That he was choosing to ignore the fact that she'd all but seen him rise from a coffin would have been amusing, if she hadn't been so certain her death was imminent.
 
"I fell," she told him.
 
"Down a long flight of stairs... the bats frightened me, and I lost my footing..."
 
She bit her lip as the memory of it came up to choke off her words.

Sighing deeply, he gripped her shirt at its hem, and without even asking her consent, he tugged it over her head.
 
Then he touched her, with his eyes as well as his hands, examining the bruises and scrapes she'd suffered.

"I'm all right," she told him.
 
"Nothing's broken."

He nodded as if in agreement, but took a handkerchief, spotlessly white, from a pocket and pressed it to her wounded head.
 
"I'll find some ice for this."

"I don't want ice.
 
I just want to leave.
 
Please..."

He shook his head slowly.
 
"Why?
 
I thought you wanted to know all my secrets."

She clamped her mouth closed, swallowing hard.
 
His gaze moved, heating as it did, over her body.
 
She felt naked, wearing no more than a bra and skirt.
 
And the look in his eyes made her feel even more vulnerable and exposed.

"I've changed my mind.
 
I'll find some other subject to write about.
 
I just... just want to leave this place."

"And me, isn't that right, Rachel?
 
Because you've discovered the monster of your nightmares.
 
The demon of your childhood.
 
The legend you refused to believe.
 
All true, all real.
 
All alive... in me."

She met his eyes.
 
"It's true, isn't it?"

"What do you think?"

She only shook her head.
 
"I never believed you were evil.
 
Tell me I wasn't wrong."

He said nothing, just stared at her.

"Don't kill me," she whispered.
 
"I swear, I'll never tell a soul."

His smile was slow, and almost sad.
 
"I'm not going to kill you, Rachel.
 
And I already know you won't tell my secret."

She blinked, hope washing over her like a flood of warmth and sunlight.
 
"You can trust me.
 
I swear it, Donovan—"

"No," he said.
 
"I can't trust you.
 
That's why you're going to have to stay here."

Her brows rose high, eyes widening.
 
"Stay here?
 
But... but..."
 
She didn't understand, couldn't comprehend.
 
"For how long?"

He said nothing, but she could see his meaning in his eyes, could hear his deep voice tingle up her spine even though he never spoke the word.
 
She heard it, in her soul.

Forever.

She was as bruised and battered as if I'd beaten her.
 
I felt her pain, in spite of myself, as I bathed each spot in cool water.

But she drew away, her eyes partly angry, but mostly afraid.
 
"Don't touch me.
 
I won't stay, do you hear me?
 
You have to let me go."

With my simple glance, an icy one, she stilled.
 
And I resumed pressing the cool cloth to the bruises.
 
"You will stay," I said.

"They'll worry about me in the village.
 
They'll come looking."

Her breasts strained against the bra she wore.
 
A small purple welt formed on one of them, and I pressed the cloth gently over it, not taking my hand away, but keeping it there.
 
Feeling her warmth seeping into my palm.
 
And the heat of desire flaring up from within.

She went utterly still, staring at my hand where it rested upon her breast.
 
Her breaths coming shallow and quick.

"Be honest, Rachel.
 
You didn't tell a soul where you were going."

She blinked, and I knew I was right.

"You'll send a note... to Mary at the pub, telling her you've gone traveling and don't know when you'll return."

"I'll do no such thing."
 
And she pulled free of me, leaping to her feet, snatching her blouse from the settee and struggling into it.

"You will do exactly as I tell you, Rachel."

"Never."
 
She surged toward the door, and I stood still, letting her make her foolish attempt.
 
When she tugged, she found the entryway sealed tight.
 
Locked.
 
She went still, her back to me, hand still on the door, and her head slowly lowered.
 
Softly, she whispered, "What are you, Donovan O'Roark?
 
And what are you going' to do with me?"

"I think you know what I am."

She turned very slowly, and I felt her gaze burning into me, searching my soul.
 
"No.
 
'Tisn't possible.
 
'Tis...
 
'tis some elaborate hoax."

"It's not only possible, but true.
 
And I think you know it."

Her eyes narrowed, a little of the fear leaving them.
 
She came nearer, studying me so closely I felt exposed to my bones.
 
But she stopped before she reached me.
 
"There are no such things as vampires," she whispered.
 
"And the tale of Donovan O'Roark is but a legend.
 
Not real."

I stood very still, wondering why I felt so vulnerable, why I was waiting in secret dread of her reaction when she finally realized the truth.

"That's it, isn't it?
 
This is your idea of a joke.
 
You're but tryin' to teach me a lesson."
 
One step, then another, and she stood very close.
 
"You're only trying to scare me, and for a time, you succeeded.
 
But I've come to my senses now, Donovan.
 
So why don't you simply tell me the truth rather than playing out this game and pretending you won't let me leave?"

Raising my hands, I let them rest gently on her shoulders.
 
"It is no game, Rachel.
 
Tell me, why should I- let you go the way Dante let Laura Sullivan go a century past?
 
So you can run screaming through the village the way she did?
 
So you can lead a mob back here at the break of dawn to end my miserable life?"
 
Closing my eyes very slowly, I whispered, "Perhaps if I were wise I'd do just that."

But I instantly regretted that impulsive declaration.
 
When I opened my eyes again I saw her frowning at me.
 
"I won't believe any of it.
 
If you're a vampire, prove it to me."

Lowering my head, I shook it slowly.
 
"You have the talk of the villagers.
 
The way they look at me when I pass... as if the devil himself is in their midst.
 
What more proof do you need, lass?"

She shrugged her shoulders.
 
"Turn into a bat," she suggested.

I looked up quickly, sensing the edgy humor creeping into her voice.
 
God, did she really believe this was all a joke?
 
"I'm afraid that's not a skill I've mastered.
 
I've heard that shape-shifting is possible to the truly ancient ones among us.
 
But I'm only two centuries old."

"Barely old enough to drive," she mocked.

Closing my eyes, sighing deeply, I muttered, "Do you have a mirror, Rachel?"

"A mirror?"

I nodded, not looking at her.
 
She hesitated.
 
Then, "Look, d-don't you think you've carried this joke far enough?
 
You knew I wouldn't leave as you told me, so you pulled that prank with the coffin, and your timing was perfect.
 
Though how you could be sure I'd find you in this maze of crumbling stone—I mean, I could've been killed and it really wasn't all that amusing, and—"

"Get the mirror."
 
I met her eyes, stared into them.
 
"Get the mirror, Rachel, and let's get this part of it over with, shall we?"

"You're a lunatic."
 
She dug into her pocket.
 
"This isn't going to prove a thing.
 
I swear, you've made your point.
 
I learned my lesson, my snooping days are over, and I..."
 
She drew a compact out of her pocket, fingered it slowly, and I knew her fear was coming back.
 
She fought it, but it was returning in spite of her skepticism.

"Open it," I told her.
 
"And then you can go back to hating me the way the rest of them do."

"Don't be silly," she said.
 
"They don't even know you."
 
She opened the compact.

"They've known me for two centuries," I said.
 
"I was one of them once."
 
I took the mirror from her hands, bit my lip slightly.
 
"Look, Rachel.
 
See me for the monster everyone else does."
 
And I held the mirror before my face.

She drew a deep breath, and moved around beside me.
 
And then she gasped, and backed away.
 
"It can't be... it can't be true."

I only stood where I was, snapping the despicable mirror closed and tossing it to the settee.

"Oh, it's true."

"And the legend?
 
The tale of how you sat up in your own coffin and the priest tried..."

"Tried to kill me.
 
My own father handed him the mallet and stake.
 
My own mother called me a demon.
 
And the girl I'd planned to marry screamed for my blood."

I heard her try to swallow, and the way she struggled to breathe.
 
"And the rest of it?
 
The belief that you'd return one day to destroy the village and take revenge on the Sullivan women?"

I lowered my head.
 
"Do you believe that's why I've come home, Rachel?"

She blinked, and looked up into my eyes.
 
"You said I couldn't leave.
 
What do you intend to do with me?"

"I don't know."

"Am I in danger here?"

"If I said no, would you believe me?"

Her throat convulsed.
 
"Let me leave, Donovan."

"You weren't so eager to leave me last night, Rachel.
 
Or have you forgotten that kiss in your chamber?"

"That was before..."

"Before what?
 
Before you knew the truth?
 
That I'm a monster, bent on destruction and revenge?
 
You know nothing about me, and yet you readily believe the worst."

For a moment she was silent.
 
Then sighing, she said, "You're right.
 
I'm behaving just the way the others do.
 
Judging you, when I swore I never would.
 
Exactly the way you believe the worst about me."
 
And her words rocked me.
 
"That I'd betray you simply because my ancestors did.
 
That if you let me go, I'd shout your secrets to the world."

I lowered my head.
 
She was right, that was exactly what I thought.
 
"So we're at an impasse."

She huffed.
 
Folded her arms across her chest.
 
"Are you going to kill me?"

"No."
 
Then I met her eyes.
 
"Do you believe that?"

"I shouldn't, but for some reason I do."

"Good."
 
I literally sighed in relief.

"Don't celebrate, Donovan.
 
Part of the reason I believe it is because I want to.
 
I'm only too aware that I'm likely kidding myself."

"I won't hurt you, Rachel, you have my word on that."

"Will you let me go?"

"I can't.
 
Not... yet."

"When?"

"I don't know."
 
I pressed both hands to my head and turned in a slow circle.
 
"I have to think."

She stood still for a long moment.
 
Then she blinked and looked at the ceiling.
 
"I'm having some trouble believing all this.
 
I should be screaming or running for my life, or fainting, shouldn't I?"

"You already did those things."

Her mouth quirked very slightly, a tremulous hint of a smile.
 
"So how do most women react when you tell them you're a vampire?"

"I've never told another woman."

I didn't look at her when I said it.
 
Instead I turned and walked toward the blazing fireplace, then lowered myself into a chair close to it, seeking the warmth.
 
"But if I had, I imagine they'd have reacted the same way you did.
 
First with horror, then disbelief, and now..."
 
I turned to look back at her, where she still stood.
 
"What are you feeling now, Rachel?"

She moved closer, taking the opposite chair.
 
"I'm mad as hell at you, for keeping me here against my will.
 
As for the other..."
 
Shaking her head quickly side to side, she shrugged.
 
"I'm not sure I know what to make of it.
 
And there's one other thing I'm feeling, Donovan O'Roark."

A hint of panic tickled at my nape.
 
"What?"

"Hunger."

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

She watched him, still battling an eerie sense of having fallen into some dream world.
 
Dizzy with the weight of his revelations, not sure she believed what her own eyes had shown her, she was dazzled.
 
But not terrified—or not as much as she had been at first.

He went away, leaving her to explore on her own, and she did, thumbing through the books in his bookcase, taking a closer look at the tapestries on his wall.
 
She recalled last night.
 
The kiss.
 
The way his lips had trailed over her throat, and he'd tasted her skin there.
 
The incredible sensations the touch of his mouth had evoked in her.
 
Sensations she'd never felt before.
 
Just at a kiss.

What had he been thinking?
 
Was it
 
the way it was depicted in fiction?
 
Had he been battling some kind of mad bloodlust?
 
Barely restraining himself from taking her life?
 
And why wasn't she paralyzed with fear?

But she wasn't.
 
She was curious now that the fear was beginning to ebb.
 
And more.
 
Still drawn to him as she'd always been.
 
And only now beginning to realize that what she'd believed as a child... might very well be true.
 
It was no longer impossible, was it?

She'd never feared the shadowy figure she saw as her protector when she'd been a child.
 
And she wasn't afraid of him now.
 
Nervous, uncertain, angry, curious.
 
But not afraid.

She must be losing her grip on reality, for she certainly should be.

He appeared then, a bowl of soup steaming in his hands, a glass of something red beside it.
 
As her gaze fell on the scarlet liquid and widened, she heard him mutter, "Wine," and immediately felt foolish.

Of course it was wine.
 
What else would it be?

He set the soup on a marble stand, then moved it closer to her chair.
 
She returned to her seat, eyeing the meal.

"It was the best I could do.
 
The workers left a few supplies in the cupboards when they left this last time."

She tilted her head to one side.
 
"And... what about you?"

He lowered his head.
 
"Don't ask questions if you aren't prepared for the answers, Rachel."

"I don't think anyone can be prepared for something like this.
 
Were you?"

His head came up quickly.
 
"What do you mean?"

"Well...
 
I mean, when you first... how did it happen to you?"